Sunday, February 19, 2017

One Seventy Two

One Seventy Two

One seventy two
was my aunt's weight
before cancer started
eating her.
We took her to appointments,
and each time presented her license,
her weight there in print,
and she was okay at 172.
At  16, I knew that 172
made a woman
hefty, sturdy,
strong enough to
hold up the world.
When I learned she'd be leaving,
I decided to go too.
I was 132.
She'd take her medicine
in a spoonful of applesauce.
I wouldn't eat a spoonful of anything
more than once a day.
We got weak together.
Our hair fell out.
We became delusional:
Me in a weight competition with her,
thinking that if I was her size or smaller,
and if I was still surviving,
then so could she.
She, telling me pretty lies like:
The doctor says if I drink my Ensure,
I'll be all right.
We got down to 118
the month before she left.
I  celebrated my 17th birthday
in bed with her.
Then she said she hated the sticky summer
and died on the 20th of June.
I dropped down to 104
before I decided I'd stick around.
Since then I've gained and lost 50 pounds three times,
but I always come back to 172.
I don't know how else
to be where she was

back when we were okay. 


  1. Trinny, this one is a heartbreaker. Well done. And hugs.

    1. Thank you, Granny Sue. Her loss was the hardest one I've ever endured so far. She was my mother figure.